


New Hampshire Primary

by rosemilagros



Category: The West Wing
Genre: First Campaign, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2531474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemilagros/pseuds/rosemilagros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Toby's introduction in New Hampshire leaves a bad first impression, but after a few weeks of strained communication and Toby's increasingly odd and inconstant behavior, Sam is not sure what to make of their relationship or his feelings toward his new boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any imbalance in style/diction/tone/etc. I ended up taking this in a very different direction than originally intended.

Thirteen weeks before the New Hampshire primary, Josiah Bartlet was about as unrecognizable to the American public as a third-party candidate, and the coordination of the Bartlet for America campaign closely resembled that of the floor of the New York Stock Exchange if it were run by chimpanzees on Black Tuesday. So, being thoroughly aware of this, Toby Ziegler wasn't exactly surprised when Mary or Margaret or whatever—who wasn't supposed to be taking calls for him in the first place—released a stranger without an appointment into his cramped office.

Around 11 a.m. on a Tuesday, she popped her head in unannounced. "There's a guy here for you."

Toby looked up from his desk—better described as a wooden tabletop balanced between two small filing cabinets—and drew a longer sigh than usual. "Who is he?"

"I don't know. Some guy."

"What _guy_?"

"I don't _know_." She didn't wait for another lethargic response. "I'll send him in." The door was left hanging open and a moment later Toby rose to meet a young man with a clean black coat and shiny briefcase: a lawyer, or a politician. Equally likely and probably both. His body language was far too energetic for Toby, who prefered strange lawyers to be outraged and scowling when they walked into his office; anything other than outrage did not bode well for him.

The young lawyer smiled as he stepped up to Toby’s desk—which honestly wasn't that far of a step from the door—and extended his hand. Toby shook it. "Sam Seaborn. Pleased to meet you."

"How can I help you?"

"I'm a friend of Josh Lyman's."

Toby blinked. "Josh Lyman."

"Yes."

"Is there a reason that name sounds familiar?"

"Well, yes, I should think so. Unless there’s another Josh Lyman that I’m not aware of—"

"Doesn't he work for Hoynes?"

"Yes."

" _The_ Hoynes."

"Yes."

"John Hoynes. As in Senator John Hoynes, the leading opponent of Josiah Bartlet, Governor of New Hampshire, whose presidential campaign headquarters you are now currently standing inside of."

Sam paused. "That sentence felt a bit redundant. Do you mind if I sit?"

Aside from the swivel chair Toby was able to grab for himself when they set up headquarters, the only available seating in the room consisted of two metal folding chairs and a tarnished armchair, all of which had been abandoned by whoever previously occupied the building. Toby found that most people prefered not to sit while in this room. "Make yourself at home," he offered dryly. Sam opted for one of the folding chairs. Toby continued to stand. "So what does Hoynes want?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a naive sort of way, but he must have realized how childish this looked because it tilted back into place. "I’m not quite sure what you’re asking."

Toby shifted his weight and played with the corner of a paper sitting on the shelf beside his desk, also a relic of the building’s previous occupants. "Hoynes sent you here."

"No."

"Lyman sent you here?"

"Yes. Well, he told me— I was supposed to meet with Leo McGarry, who I believe is the campaign manager, and I was told—"

"He’s with someone right now." Toby had to give him props for bothering to find out Leo's name, but now he began to wonder if this kid wasn't some lost puppy that wandered in off the street.

"Yes. That’s what his secretary told me, and I was told by Josh to ask for you if Mr. McGarry was unavailable when I arrived."

"Josh being… Josh Lyman."

"Yes."

"Hoynes’s Josh Lyman."

"I feel as if I've made that abundantly clear by now."

Toby took a deep breath and sat down, hesitating as he studied the man sitting across from him. "What exactly did Josh Lyman send you here for?"

"A job."

He glanced away with half-squinted eyes and returned with a smirk, the closest thing to a smile Toby could regularly express. "I’m sorry to disappoint you, Tom—"

"Sam."

"—but I think you took a wrong turn somewhere."

"This building belongs to Governor Bartlet's presidential campaign?"

"Yeah."

"Then I don't believe I have."

Toby leaned onto his desk and rested his chin in his palm. Sam Seaborn had yet to put down his briefcase. "Look, Tom… Sam… I’m not sure how things go with Hoynes, but here we don’t usually embrace campaigning advice given to us by the opponent."

"Hoynes didn't send me here."

"No, Josh Lyman did. At least we've cleared that up."

"I apologize if I’m missing something, but Josh said you needed—"

Toby interrupted him with a raised palm and plodded past him on way to the wilderness of the open floor. He passed through the hall briskly and straight into Leo’s office, which was more impressive than his own only for the fact that it had access to natural light through a strange and exotic rectangular hole in the wall called a window. The door flew open but Leo looked up with nothing more than mild surprise. A man sitting in the folding chair at the front of his desk turned in curiosity as well.

"Excuse me, but I have law student Barbie's boyfriend sitting in my office telling me we should hire him because Josh Lyman said to and I’m not entirely sure he’s going to leave until the campaign manager himself loudly and forcefully tells him to."

Leo blinked behind his glasses, which sat nearly at the tip of his nose. "Why would I tell him no?"

Toby stopped and inclined his neck. "I’m sorry. No one informed me we were taking _tips from Hoynes_ now."

"Thought you said Josh recommended him."

He took a deep breath. The urge to bang his head against the door was almost overwhelming.

The man sitting in front of Leo's desk appeared to be fully amused by the dialogue playing out in front of him. He was 30-something and only vaguely familiar—another local face that everyone would forget once the campaign trailed out of New Hampshire. He smirked at Toby. "Did you say law student Barbie?"

"Just her boyfriend. Don't get too excited."

"Was he wearing some overpriced topcoat?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty eyes and kinda weirdly masculine jaw?"

"Yeah."

"Annoying articulation and expansive vocabulary?"

"Almost as annoying and expansive as this conversation."

The 30-something forget-me-face grinned and turned back to Leo. "Sounds like Sam."

He brightened. "Oh, yeah. Sam Seaborn. I meant to tell you, Toby. My fault. I thought he was coming in tomorrow." Leo rose from his desk and left the room. Toby followed him after making brief eye contact with the 30-something, who accompanied them.

"You should look over his stuff and tell me what you think," Leo said. "Or at least pretend to look over his stuff and I’ll pretend to listen and then hire him anyway." He stopped at Margaret’s desk to pick something up and scanned the document while weaving the rest of the way to Toby’s office, the speechwriter and 30-something in tow.

"And then we can talk to Andy Warhol about doing some campaign buttons and attack ads."

They stopped short of Toby’s open door and Leo waved in at the young lawyer, still waiting patiently in his chair. He waved back. "Welcome to the team," Leo said. He and Toby exchanged glances before he walked off. The 30-something took his place in the doorway.

"Hey, Sam," he nodded.

Sam lifted his chin. "Hey, Josh."

Toby heard rumors earlier that week that Hoynes lost some of his campaign staff. He put two and two together.


	2. Chapter 2

Things weren't easier after the first week, or the second, or the third. Sam erroneously presumed that being squished into the same low-rent storefront of what he gathered was once a hardware store would tie any number of people into a tightly bundled group or dare-he-say family, but in regards to integration, not much had changed since the day he arrived—especially with Toby. He broke the ice with C.J. and Mandy and Leo and some of the secretaries and interns, and of course he and Josh spent time together when they could, but Toby still glowered at him with those dull black eyes and rarely responded in anything but monosyllables.

They shared an office. It was still Toby’s, of course, even if an anonymous penman had marked Sam's name on the loose-leaf plaque Scotch taped to the door—a hastily jotted _S. Seaborn_ in skinny blue ink, much less legible than the permanent-markered _Toby Ziegler_ above. If anyone wanted to find Sam that was where he'd be found, which was unfortunate, taking into consideration the room could fit only one desk.

Sam didn't sit at Toby’s desk. Ever. Even when Toby was gone for the night or out for lunch or at a meeting, he took the armchair instead. Toby never forbade him from using the desk, but he never invited him either. Sam would have used it without asking, perhaps, if he weren't so mindful of where the tiniest mistake could lead their acquaintanceship. He understood if Bartlet’s staff was at all cynical regarding his recruitment, whether or not they grasped that his only relation to Hoynes was through Josh. But everyone had warmed up instantly to Josh, with his brash charm and impudent Han Solo-esque appeal, and even while recognizing he was without the advantage of Josh’s charisma, Sam couldn't help but feel left out. He wondered if Josh’s family ties to Leo were part of what melted everyone’s hearts so quickly. He was the one the entire staff answered to and trusted, the Governor’s best friend, and if he had faith in Josh, why shouldn't they?

Sam thought of mentioning this to Josh a few times they met for lunch, and one or two nights when they were out for a drink, but the plausibility of that conversation turning south always stopped him. When he imagined what Josh might say, and what Sam might reply, variations of the phrase "I don’t think they like me" continually surfaced, and somehow Sam thought his friend might stop taking his concerns seriously after that; he saved himself the embarrassment. Besides, maybe he really was being childish about this. And, as Josh reminded him in several of their imaginary conversations, "You’re not here to make friends, Sam."

And it wasn't as if Toby, who undoubtedly hated him most out of any of the campaign staff, was a generally affectionate person; and then again, it wasn't a lack of affection that worried Sam about their relationship. He saw the way Toby was with everyone else—dry, apathetic, not afraid to wield sarcasm and most definitely not afraid to speak his mind to Leo or even the Governor; but he wasn't like that with Sam. Their interactions lacked an element of brazenness that Toby otherwise brought to the table. When Sam came to him with any matter, it was always "yes" or "no" or "I’ll take care of it." No argument or resistance. Even when he challenged him on something ridiculous, something to test Toby's reaction, Sam was met with, "Go talk to Leo about it." This specific concern about their relationship, Sam decided, was safe to bring up with Josh.

"He’s not exactly the most talkative guy," Josh quipped with a half-chewed bite of egg and cheese sandwich in his mouth. They sat inside a lifeless diner with a crass and forgettable name like Chubb’s or Greasy Jim’s, two blocks from campaign headquarters. Sam prefered that cafe around the corner, but Josh made the excuse that it was too cold to walk that far today and he didn't argue.

"It’s not about that. It’s… I just think we could be more prolific if we actually…" he sighed, "I don’t know… _worked together_?" The french onion soup in front of him no longer seemed appetizing, and by the consistency of the melted cheese the risk of spilling something on his shirt ran higher than usual, multiplied by the significance of the man sitting across from him.

Josh did not seem to share his friend's apprehensions, but did take the courtesy of wiping the crumbs from the corner of his mouth before continuing. "Try talking to him."

"You just said he hates talking."

"I said he isn't talkative. Maybe he just needs a little motivation."

"Oh, yeah. I bet he’s a real Chatty Cathy underneath."

Josh shrugged. "Hey, you come to me for workplace advice... you get what you pay for."

Sam sighed and pushed away his bowl to make room on the table. "What in God's name are we supposed to talk about?"

"I don’t know. Sports, movies, the weather. Make something up. You’re both lawyers, you’re both writers, you’re working on the same campaign. You've gotta have something in common."

Toby was at his desk when they returned, but other than a "Good afternoon" from Sam and a generous glance of acknowledgement from Toby, they exchanged no small talk. Sam spent the rest of the day boosting his courage, brainstorming ways to prompt a lightweight dialogue between them and listening for opportunities to do the same.

They both stayed well after sunset to polish the Governor’s remarks for a luncheon the next morning—something that should have been simple and quick but was continuously put off until the last minute. It was approaching midnight when the last desk lamp was extinguished outside Toby’s office, leaving the two of them and a solitude they were eerily unaccustomed to.

The phone rang, and Sam looked up as Toby lifted the receiver to his ear. He usually didn't take calls this late.

"Toby Ziegler."

The voice at the other end was inaudible.

"Oh… uh, I'm very well, thank you. Is something wrong?"

Sam watched him, the way his shoulders moved when he reclined, the subtle bowing of his head as the chatterbox at the other end began to test his patience.

"Well… Mrs. O'Neill, it’s really not a concern at the… I understand…" Toby sighed and pivoted his chair to face away from Sam. "I’m going to be completely honest with you, Mrs. O'Neill, I could care less about where Milo… Yes, I know he… Yes, he was…" He leaned one arm on the desk. “Well, you could just leave him out with the trash if you—" Sam noticed a sardonic lift in his voice. "No, that’s fine too. Go right ahead." There was a longer pause. "Well, you see, Mrs. O'Neill, I’m going to be in New Hampshire for a few more weeks and I don’t think _Governor Bartlet_ would appreciate my absence during… That’s what I’m saying. All right. Thank you for calling… No, I'm wide awake, and I'm sure this couldn't have waited until the morning. OK. All right. Good night."

Sam didn't bother pretending he was focused on work when Toby turned around and hung up the phone. "What was that about?"

The older man stared at him, and Sam felt a sudden discomfort—unrelated to the discomfort he usually felt while sitting in their 7 x 10 ft. office. He repositioned himself, not easily done in the narrow space between Toby's desk and the opposing wall, withdrawing his feet from their resting place on a folding chair. Toby stared at him still and Sam felt like he was about to be scolded, which was becoming a day-to-day experience. "My fish died," he explained.

"And someone’s arranging a fish funeral?" Sam began his first attempt at small talk. Toby didn't laugh; only shrugged, and lifted up his pen with a deep breath. Sam bit his lip and tried again. "You didn't like your fish?"

Toby glanced upward, his lip slouched in what Sam took to be the onset of irritation. "No."

"I had a fish when I was younger," he began. "And a dog. Two dogs, actually. My mom was a big animal lover. My dad, not so much. He only let us have one—"

"Hey, Sam?" Toby was obviously and thoroughly uninterested. "Look over that part on page 2 we were talking about."

He set aside his laptop and lifted his latest copy of the speech nearer the lamp—one of two in the room. "The line about Pell Grants?”

"Yeah.”

"What about it did you want me to look over?"

"I want you to cut it."

"Why?"

"It’s off-topic."

"In a speech about financial aid?"

"We don’t have to spend a paragraph on every social program in the book."

"I think we should leave it."

"If this is gonna be a problem you can take it up with Leo."

This is how every argument or lack thereof ended; and as desperate as Sam was for constructive conversation ceasing with something other than a dispassionate and one-sided settlement, he also wanted Toby to like him.

Neither of them spoke again until Toby stood from his desk and slid a few papers into his briefcase. Sam disregarded him, even as he pulled on his coat and opened the door.

"Good night," he said.

Sam didn't look up from his laptop. "Good night."

Toby lingered in the doorway. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye but refused to look up. A few seconds passed, and a few more. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. 30. Sam raised his head. "Do you need something?"

He stepped forward and for a brief second Sam thought he was going to be grabbed by the back of the neck. He felt Toby's warm hand on top of his head, holding it gently in place, then a long kiss pressed to his forehead. His warm beard bristled against Sam's skin. Then, the warmth was gone. "Don’t stay up too late," he muttered. The door shut behind him and Sam didn't move for five long minutes.

~

Sam was a good kid and a good writer. Toby was glad to have him on their side; that didn't mean, necessarily, they had to be best friends. They didn't argue and yell like the Governor and Leo did, or even bicker like he and C.J., and if Toby was the type to waste time thinking about these things, he would see there wasn't a single perceptible reason to think he and Sam didn't get along. It wasn't like they ignored one another and refused to speak; they just didn't talk.

No one asked what he thought of Sam, and he didn't offer his opinion, because there was no sense in constructing one. Sam was a good writer. That was as much of an opinion as anyone needed. What Toby had seen of his past work and what he saw now was impressive, but there was room for improvement. Numerous points in Sam’s writing surpassed expectation and granted reason to wonder just where-oh-where this boy had obtained his way with words; he had evidently discovered how to put aside the cluttered diction that came with a law degree, but his talent reached beyond that.

Toby suspected this was Sam’s first campaign. There was no way to be sure without asking but he didn't care enough to ask. If it wasn't his first, it was without a doubt the first in which he played a significant role. Toby could see Sam wasn't accustomed to being in charge of much of anything. He tied himself to Josh like he’d be lost without him, and for the commencing days he was. When Sam had a question or was unsure of anything, no matter what it was, he took the shortest route to Josh’s side. There was a chance this impulsion was not entirely due to naturally acquired self-doubt in a new work environment, and Toby found himself pointedly observing the two whenever they stood within 5 ft. of one another. A few weeks later and Sam still adjusted to Josh’s movements like clockwork: if he stepped into the next room, Sam was sure to take notice, to ascertain that was where he would stay until they saw each other again. It seemed like he was constantly monitoring Josh, trying to make sure that he’d be there if Sam needed him.

Toby found this aspect of their friendship interesting in a way he would never admit to. It was concerning, as well, if Sam did not shed this behavior soon; but Toby wouldn't be the one instigating a heart-to-heart with him over it. Their relationship was less than four weeks old and strictly professional. If things became an issue he would mention it to Leo. The second-in-command had a way of connecting to staff, especially the impressionable young men among them. For now, it was none of Toby’s business—taking into mind his suspicion of something more than fraternity between his two newest colleagues. The last thing he needed to worry about was uncovering an interoffice affair.

Sam was a good kid and a good writer. Toby was glad to have him on their side. He brought something to the team. Their familiarity did not need to advance beyond that.

There was an occasion, only a few days after they met, when Toby relinquished his uncertainty of Sam Seaborn and the question of whether or not he really belonged on this campaign. He gave Sam a few writing exercises disguised as assignments to determine how much they could carry between the two of them and where the workload would be divided. He was finished within an hour and handed the papers into Toby over his desk—typed, double-spaced, and stapled like a 10th grade history essay. They both knew what Sam had just completed was nothing of any importance. Taking placement quizzes and answering _How high can you jump?_ was beneath Sam and he knew it, but he wasn't quite secure enough in his position to be comfortable voicing that. Toby took the papers and looked up at him with a short nod.

Sam stood in front of his desk with his hands behind his back like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words. Looking at the ink-heavy stack of paper in his hand, Toby considered the irony in this. "On the third page," Sam stopped, and started again. "On the fourth… no, the third… On either the third or the fourth page, I made a note to the side. You’ll see I wasn't sure—"

"OK." Toby set down the essay and folded his hands.

"In case I misunderstood, I wanted to say that—"

"OK," he repeated.

Sam nodded and agreed that it was unimportant. Toby watched as he left the room, closing the door more gently than anyone else ever cared to. He was a good kid, and a good writer. He wanted to get everything right, wanted to validate himself, which was, for now, a good thing. He wasn't lost or in need of guidance. He was handsome and intelligent. He had the resources to get anywhere he wanted to be, any time he wanted to get there. He just needed to be convinced of it.

But Toby wouldn't be the one to convince him.

After finding time to read over the essay, he returned it to Sam. The idea of marking an 'A-' at the top had passed as quickly as it came. Sam sat inside Toby’s office, slouching where he always slouched, in the tattered armchair that took up nearly a quarter of the room. He looked up at Toby through those glasses that could manifest anything from naïvety to sophistication depending entirely on the expression behind them, and opened his mouth to ask about the papers just as they were handed to him. "Did I do all right?" he asked, glancing over the words.

Toby couldn't tell if Sam was mocking him or had genuinely just uttered that question. He didn't ponder the thought. "Yeah." He left the room.

Sam was a good kid and a good writer. Toby was glad to have him on their side. It was a waste of time to contemplate their relationship beyond that point. He would cut out his tongue before he admitted seeing anything of himself behind that lightly bronzed skin and happy-go-lucky smile. Toby’s instincts were wrong in this case. The empathy—for lack of a more objective term—he felt toward this California-boy-turned-East Coast-elitist was nothing more than some exaggerated desire to steer him in the right direction. Sam would do fine on his own, and this amount of self-reflection was far more than Toby was comfortable with.

He could tell Sam was frustrated with the silence between them, but there was nothing Toby could do. There was no foreseeable happy medium. He could either learn to despise Sam, give in and inevitably assume a domineering role as his supervisor, or ignore him completely. The third option continued to be the best.

He didn't know why he did it, then. It wasn't something impulsive, as if Sam had just happened to be there and Toby moved in because of a badly-timed compulsion. He stood silent and he thought about it, examined Sam’s pout in the glow of his laptop, and envisioned pressing a kiss to his head. He didn't consider what Sam’s reaction might be, or what consequences this might have, if any. He only imagined it. And then he stepped forward, pushed Sam’s hair back from his forehead, and pressed a slow and chaste kiss just below his hairline.

Walking to his car, he wasn't certain why he’d done it. He tried not to think about it.

~

Sam thought about it all night. The split second that Toby’s hand weighed on his head and his lips didn't, the seconds after when his warm beard grazed his skin, his warmer lips that tightened Sam’s chest in what felt like heartburn. Then he was gone, and Sam knew he had said something but couldn't recall what it was. The scene played over in his mind.

He remembered while he called a taxi what Toby had said: "Don’t stay up too late," but the words were echoed in someone else’s voice. Josh’s voice. No, maybe it was his own. It took him a while to recall Toby’s and to hear the words as they were said. In the cab he felt it again—the rough beard, the warm lips, the heat that washed through his chest and face and swiftly into his fingertips. This time, and each time after that, Toby’s voice was there at the end, soft and reassuring: "Don’t stay up too late."

He couldn't think about anything else. Not how he felt, or why Toby had kissed him, or if this meant that his temperament over the past few weeks was misinterpreted, and how this might change Sam’s perception of him, and if it should change if at all. The questions ran through his mind with incredible rapidity as he crawled into bed. They dominated his thoughts and he didn't have any answers or the will to dismiss them. He could only think about Toby’s lips against his forehead, the steady hand placed there, the comforting words muttered to him.  



	3. Chapter 3

He was quiet the next day. He had a reoccurring impulse to tell Josh, but stopped himself whenever it surfaced. Telling Josh would transform what happened into something else entirely. It would mean that Toby's perfectly innocuous kiss meant something more to Sam, which it didn't. This was Toby's way of warming up to him and communicating his affection without the involvement of words because, as Sam had come to understand, he was not as disposed to verbalizing his feelings as much as he was to verbalizing political goals and agendas. A kiss to the forehead was not inappropriate.

It was like any other day, and Toby didn't greet him with a "Good morning", as Sam hoped he would, nevertheless making it more like any other day. Toby came in with his coffee and hung his coat behind the door and looked over the newspaper before going to work. To say Sam was disappointed may have been an overstatement but it was not entirely inaccurate.

Things were normal over the following days. Toby was quiet, Sam was quiet, and nothing had changed. Almost nothing. Something about Toby was gentler, but after only a few minutes of contemplation while his mind was unoccupied, it occurred to Sam this may have been due solely to his own altered perceptions.

Toby's body language had changed as well. He was, oddly enough, making more physical contact. He didn't go out of his way, and it wasn't the kind of touching that made Sam uncomfortable. They were small, modest touches—a few relaxed fingers on his arm while they spoke, a warm hand floating against the small of his back when they walked together, pressing on his shoulder as he supervised Sam's writing.

Toby hardly touched him anywhere but his back and shoulders, which Sam appreciated. It was casual and comforting, borderline unprofessional, but not so much that he felt guilty, as if they were concealing something they shouldn't. The campaign wasn't exactly 24/7 nonstop underarm sweat-stain kind of busy, but it was busy enough that no one noticed or cared that Sam stood nearer his boss than usual, or that he and Toby had actually begun to converse without having to go through Leo or Josh or any of the secretaries, who were incontrovertibly busy enough without being bothered to pass along a note like they were in 9th grade math class. Sam didn't know where they stood exactly, but wherever it was, it was better than where they were before.

He prefered not to think about it, about the way his stomach fluttered when Toby touched him, or spoke to him, or looked at him. He prefered not to think about what that meant, because their relationship was professional, and it would have to stay that way for a while, and thinking or saying that juvenile one-syllable word that could describe all of what he felt would ruin everything. And besides, he didn't know what Toby meant by all this. Maybe he was like this with everyone, and Sam was no different. He tried to imagine Toby putting a hand on C.J.'s shoulder while they worked. It didn't seem likely.

Toby had even begun to move past monosyllables and 10-word conversations, retorting with something witty when Sam deserved it and never allowing him enough time to come up with a worthy response.

There were two instances during this time in Manchester that would be etched into Sam's memory forever, unremarkable instances that he nevertheless recalled with perfect clarity. Perhaps the stranger of the two should have been the most boring; it was just at the start of their habitual car rides after long nights together at headquarters, nights which grew longer and more frequent as they closed in on the New Hampshire Primary. These car rides were void of conversation and music and more often than not, Sam fell asleep.

Initially, Toby offered without really offering. They were leaving at the same time by coincidence. Sam hung back in the office to call a taxi and Toby stood in the doorway, watching as he tried to remember the number of the cab company. "You're staying at that tacky place on Bridge Street, you and Josh?" Toby asked.

Sam stared at him before nodding, the phone halfway to his ear. He was unsure of where this was headed.

"I’m driving past there anyway." Sam would have to wait an eternity before Toby brought himself to utter anything akin to _'Do you want me to give you a ride?'_

He found himself frozen, half-seated on Toby's desk as he tried to make a decision in the acceptable amount of time someone could remain silent before things got uncomfortable. "That's all right," he replied. Toby gave a short nod—the same kind that ended a significant number of their recent conversations—and disappeared.

When Sam got back to the motel he thought about knocking on Josh's door on this way to his, but his window was dark and waking his friend up for no reason during a time when neither of them were getting anywhere near a healthy amount sleep didn't seem like the courteous thing to do. He went to bed feeling sick.

He stayed late the next night in hopes that Toby would offer him a ride again. He didn't. The following night was a Friday, and Sam was leaving early with plans to meet Josh, find a bar, and get very, very drunk.

"I’m headed out," he told Toby during his last stop in their office. The older man looked up as Sam began to collect his things.

"I’ll drive you home."

Toby's car—an enormous maroon Suburban—was newer and cleaner than Sam would have expected if he spent any time at all thinking about his boss's car. A baseball-shaped Yankees air freshener hung from the rear view mirror was the only observable personalization. Neither of them turned on the radio, but Toby blasted the heat so high Sam was afraid he might melt by the time they got to the motel. Still, he couldn't complain; this seat was the most comfortable thing he’d sat in for over a month and at the moment melting into it actually didn't sound half-bad. He watched as snow fell outside, flakes whipping past the car as if it fell horizontally, a few sticking to the window and disintegrating.

When the car in front of them made a screwy turn through a red light, Toby placed a hand on Sam's knee, as if that would protect him from any potential harm. Sam didn't say anything and Toby kept his hand in place. Neither of them spoke.

He took a deep breath and returned both hands to the wheel as they pulled into the motel parking lot. Sam kept his head down, marginally embarrassed to have Toby witness the less than glamorous conditions under which he was living. He wasn't sure if it was his unease or the state-of-the-art heating system which caused his cheeks to burn. Toby turned the key, the engine hushed, and the burning subsided.

“Will you walk me up?” he asked.

The snowflakes melted against Sam’s skin and caught in Toby’s beard. The concrete steps to the second level were slick with ice and Toby steadied a hand under Sam’s arm as they went up. They stood in front of the door while Sam fished the key from his pocket. Hot breath escaped from their mouths, thick like smoke against the frost. They stared at one another with nothing to say. Sam shivered.

Toby lifted a gloved hand to his cheek. "Are you cold?"

Sam nodded through another shiver, this time drawing his breath short. A door opened behind them and Toby’s hand fell to his side. He turned to see Josh just as he noticed them, evidently as startled as they were. "Hey. I was just coming to get you," he said, smiling at Sam. "Hey, Toby."

Toby didn't respond. He cleared his throat and turned back toward Sam. "Good night."

They watched as he walked past Josh to get to the stairs. "Toby," Sam called. The older man stopped at the first step and turned to him expectantly. “Josh and I were going out for a drink. You’re welcome… to come— if you’d like."

He paused, giving Sam time to berate himself for stammering. "I'm a little tired, thanks." He held Sam's gaze a moment longer before descending the stairs. Josh waited until he was getting into his car, far enough not to hear them.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

Sam looked at him. "Yeah." The engine of Toby’s car revved and he began to back out. "Yeah," he repeated.

Josh stroked his back. "All right. Let’s go."

~

Toby's emotional distance returned by the next morning, in a manner unlike before. They reverted to the customary prolonged silences and overly formal greetings, but Toby was somehow softer than he ever had been, as if he wished to express that his standoffishness was not any fault of Sam's.

He still spoke to him on topics campaign-related and otherwise, touched his arms and shoulders at all the suitable moments, allowed him to sit at his desk while they worked together, but there was something crucial missing. Sam felt as if he wasn't really there, as if Toby was in the next room and he'd be back in just a minute, and this withdrawn man was only a stand-in until then; but hearing his voice and being close to him, smelling the leftover cologne on his neck after an event, nodding off in his car on the way home, made it much better than truly being alone.

Then he started asking offbeat questions.

"How long have you and Josh known each other?"

Sam looked up. "What?"

"You and Josh," Toby repeated, leaning back in his chair. "How long have you known each other?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Six, seven years?"

Toby nodded.

"Why?"

"No reason."

This was around the time they started going out to lunch together. It was a rare point at which Mandy and Josh were playing nice, so Sam doubted he'd see much of his friend outside of work for the next week or so—if the couple could refrain from having another fight between now and then.

Eating with Toby was enjoyable if only for the reason that he got to choose the restaurant more often than not. Though, he could tell from Toby's sigh and darkened eyes one afternoon he was not happy to find out that Sam was familiar with what had to be one of the only health food restaurants in Manchester. As they both looked over their menus, he wondered if Toby was having difficulty deciding between the wild boar chili and the mustard tilapia. Unsurprisingly, he opted for chicken stir fry. Sam decided on the mushroom curry.

The restaurant was frigid, and both men kept their coats on throughout the meal. There was, regrettably, not much they could do to protect themselves from the hideous interior design—splotchy orange wall paint, Berber carpeting, and the cheapest upholstery Sam had ever sat on gave the overall impression of a miserable attempt at Mediterranean-style decor. The New England winter outside did not serve as a favorable backdrop. They were the only two in the restaurant.

He and Toby brushed legs under the table as the waitress delivered their drinks, and Sam pulled his feet back in response. His ice water and coffee were a welcome distraction.

Toby ripped open a sugar packet and poured it into his iced tea. "How's Josh?" he asked, ice clinking against the glass as he stirred.

Sam glanced at him before his eyes returned to the steam rising up from his mug. "Didn't you see him this morning?"

"Yeah, I did. How is he?"

Sam hesitated. "He's fine."

"Is he?"

"Yeah."

"Cause it sounded like you were a little uncertain there."

"He’s fine, Toby."

He stirred another packet of sugar into his tea, and Sam watched as the crystals swirled around and disappeared. He considered how absurd and un-Toby-like it was to be having an iced drink in below-freezing temperatures, and the equal absurd thought passed through his head that Toby had ordered it with the sole intention of unsettling Sam. "How about you?"

Sam looked up. Toby’s eyes were fixed on him. "I'm fine," he replied.

Toby didn't seem to buy this, but discounted it and removed the straw from his glass. "I’m thinking we pull out of New Hampshire by the end of the month. There's not much more we can do here."

"Did you talk to Leo?"

"Yeah."

"What’s next?"

"South Carolina."

"That’ll be fun."

"I don’t think the Governor decided to run for office because he was looking for a good time."

Sam rested his chin in his palm and turned toward the window. The snow here was finer, white and clean like the kind he'd only seen before in movies, unrecognizable from the slush they got in New York and a far cry from California weather. He sighed.

"So we’ll talk to the Governor about it today… and then we should start packing up camp."

Sam nodded but did not respond.

"Something wrong?"

"No,” he replied. “Actually, yeah. Why did you ask me about Josh?"

Toby shrugged and took another sip of iced tea to delay answering. "We’re moving out of New Hampshire."

"So?"

"So this isn't spring training anymore, Sam. This…," he waved his hand, “whatever you have with Josh… leave it in Manchester.”

Sam blinked. "Excuse me?"

Toby cleared his throat and didn't meet Sam's eyes.

He tried to keep his voice down. "You think Josh and I are seeing each other?"

"That’s not what I said," he sighed.

"Well you certainly implied it."

"Sam—"

"Even if we were seeing each other, what could possibly make it any of your business? It’s not like we—"

"Sam," he pronounced. Their conversation died as the waitress brought out their dishes and asked if they needed anything else. Toby answered no for the both of them and reached across the table to lay his hand on top of Sam's. "Whatever you've got with Josh,” he said. "Drop it."

Sam nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a small celebration arranged the night before they cleared out. The last days in Manchester were a whirlwind of travel arrangements and packing up the office and taking care of business matters that needed to be taken care of before leaving. There was also a lot of shredding. White ribbons of paper flooded every trash can and formed a loose trail to the back door, littered like thin, flat pieces of hay in their bureaucratic barnyard. By the end of the week, the dumpster out back was nothing but a cesspool of tattered and unwanted documents. No one was interested in taking along one more piece of paperwork than was absolutely necessary on what would assuredly be a miserable 800-mile bus ride. Toby's car may have not been the environmentally-friendly or even economic choice, and he was not looking forward to driving 18 hours over the span of two days, but the thought became exponentially appealing in comparison to spending those 18 hours on a shaky bus crammed with people he either hated or would soon learn to hate.

He was the last of the senior staff to arrive at the bar. There was something recognizable about it, but these New England pubs were all the same and Toby had seen so many of them in the past few months that they all began to blend together. It was tiny and old-fashioned, with photographs of the building circa 1910 hung in the vestibule, creaky hardwood flooring and weathered bar stools, complete with a wall of exposed brickwork: the kind that was coming into fashion again but still failed to seat more than twenty patrons on a good night. The Bartlet campaign must have been filling their quota for the month.

The room was packed with staffers, all too busy with one another and the drinks in their hands to notice Toby's entrance. A waitress was the first to greet him, mutely taking his order of a Jack and Coke before disappearing. C.J. sat at the bar, deep in discussion with a man he didn't recognize. She welcomed him in passing with a smile and casual hand on his arm. Sam and Josh sat in one of the undersized booths at the back. Leo and the Governor were, unsurprisingly, not to be found.

He took a seat on the other side of C.J. but it was instantly clear that the guy she was talking to hung on her every word and was not ready to let go any time soon, and C.J. didn't seem to mind having someone absorb her every utterance without retort. He decided not to cut short what was perhaps her first and last experience of being appreciated, and only remained at the bar until the waitress placed a drink in front of him and moved on. Toby twirled the stirrer once, removed it, and got up from the bar.

Sam caught sight of him as he approached their table. Josh's head was visible over the top of the booth, moving excitedly back and forth while he spoke, but Toby did not break eye contact with Sam. In an instant it was obvious that Josh was well past a few beers; he jumped to his feet as soon as he saw Toby, slapping him on the shoulder and smiling. "Hey man!" he bellowed, like they hadn't seen each other in years. "How are ya, buddy? Sit with us, grab a drink!"

Toby put his glass down on the table and took off his coat, laying it across the back of the booth before sitting down beside Sam, who greeted him quietly. The seats were optimized for one and it was a tight fit. Sam pressed against the wall until they were no longer touching. Toby lit a cigar.

Josh resumed the conversation, well-spoken with five empty bottles at his elbow. Toby looked on with dubious interest. "I was just saying there's not enough information for anyone to make a decision about whether or not there is a risk—and frankly, I'd rather be safe than sorry—and there's definitely not enough information available for consumers to make a decision about whether or not they want to take that risk!"

"Disregarding the fact that you're drunk and the words coming out of your mouth are only forming partial ideas—" Josh rolled his eyes, "—there's no risk to consider!" Sam countered, fully coherent with an ice water and untouched pint glass in front of him. "There has not been one documented case of ill effects in the entire human population, let alone the U.S. I don't know what San Franciscan food co-op you're getting your information from, but if I were you I might reevaluate their credibility."

"A label! All I'm asking for's a label, Sam! I don't think you should be able to shoot a tomato fulla hormones, stick it on a shelf, and call it all-natural!"

Toby breathed out a ring of smoke. "GMOs?"

Sam glanced at him and his voice dulled. "You think arguing about this is ridiculous."

"Yeah, pretty much," he said. "But I also think people who're afraid of GMOs are the same people who don't drink tap water because fluoride can lower their IQ."

Sam smiled and Josh shook his head. "S'not unreasonable to think there's a possibility that food that's been skewered… skewer… _screwered_ around with... in a laboratory and God knows what the hell else— I'm just saying it might not be the safest thing to put in your body!"

"Yeah, and cell phones cause cancer, TV will fry your brain, and Thomas Edison was a witch." Sam took a sip of whatever lightweight beer he'd decided on tonight and Toby snorted behind his cigar.

Josh sneered and excused himself to the men's room, but not before yelling out an order of two more Yuenglings. He left Toby and Sam alone, side-by-side in the booth. Sam glued his shoulder to the wall, trying not to knock knees with his superior, who was evidently less troubled with their cozy seating arrangement as he took a deep breath and stretched his arms. Sam watched as Toby huffed another set of rings toward the ceiling.

He wrinkled his nose. "How can you stand those things?"

Toby rested his elbow on the table and faced him, scratching his forehead with his thumb, and in his hesitation, Sam couldn't help but feel like a bit of a prude for asking. "I don't know," he muttered.

Against his better knowledge of tobacco and its noxious effects, Sam enjoyed the smell. He always had. A whiff was just enough to awaken childhood memories of his father's cigarettes and accompanying sentiments—blissful sentiments formed prior to the adolescent realization of his parent's imperfections. The smoke curled around him and kindled an uncanny emotional warmth that drove him closer to Toby before billowing up to wed the thickening haze below the ceiling, woven from the exhalations of a half-dozen more smokers in the room. "Or did you start smoking just because you thought it would make you look all solemn and wise?" Sam said after a prolonged delay, trying to appear critical.

Toby glowered at him but did not reply, bringing the cigar to his lips once more and exhaling a cloud of smoke just shy of Sam's face. He held his gaze and Sam found his stare disconcertingly ambiguous. "You wanna try?" he asked after a moment, offering Sam the cigar.

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you joking?"

"No."

It wasn't as if Sam intended to kickstart a smoking habit; he just didn't want to give Toby the satisfaction of backing down. He took the cigar gingerly from Toby's fingers and brought it to his lips, waiting a few seconds before inhaling. Judging from the amused smirk a few inches away from him, his technique was amateurish. Sam inhaled slowly, like he thought he should, but the smoke burned his throat and he immediately slipped into a coughing fit. Toby patted his back and took back the cigar.

"Oh God," he wheezed. "That's vile." He let out a few more coughs and Toby began to rub circles on his back.

"Well, Sam," he said, leaning onto the table with the cigar in one hand and the other still rested between his shoulders, "I could say that wasn't bad for a beginner, but I'd be lying through my teeth."

Sam coughed again and gulped down some water, but the burning in his throat remained. "What did I do wrong?" he breathed.

"Did you inhale?"

"Was I not supposed to?"

The amused smirk reappeared, less as a discernible smile and more as a glint in his eye. "Yeah, that might've been your first mistake." His hand smoothed down Sam's spine, stopping just above his belt. "Watch." Toby brought the cigar to his lips once more, drawing in the smoke and holding it there, letting it cool. He eased his lips, and Sam did his best not to lean closer as the fumes curled around them both. "Try again," Toby said.

Sam smiled and shook his head as the cigar was again offered to him. "I think I've damaged my lungs enough for one night."

Toby paused, the smirk in his eyes unwavering as he studied Sam, playing with his napkin, staring at his lap, at his hands, at the empty seat across from him, anywhere but up at Toby. "OK. We're gonna try something else." He motioned for Sam to slide forward, as if they weren't close enough already, and he did so. "As I breathe out, you're going to breathe in—and keep it away from your throat this time."

"I don't think—"

"Too bad."

Sam was unsure, but Toby wasn't asking, and the hand on his back was now on his thigh, pressing lightly, encouraging him. Toby inhaled lazily, and Sam closed in on his lips as he exhaled. Smoke filled his mouth and he struggled against the desire to breathe in, retaining it for only a second before leaning back. The smoke escaped smoothly from his lips.

Toby propped his elbow onto the table again, resting his jaw against the heel of his hand. Sam took a sip of beer, pleased with himself, awaiting his applause.

"That was good," Toby said when he realized Sam wanted praise. He moved his hand along Sam's thigh, as if he was going to draw it back, but stopped, placing it higher than before. Sam felt uneasiness crawl into his gut and looked away. Then Toby lifted his chin and kissed him, gently, on the lips, and it happened so quickly that Sam could not confirm that it had happened at all. The next moment Josh was there, sliding into the booth across from him, a woozy grin on his face. Sam did not have the mental clarity to worry if he had seen them, but if he had his behavior did not reflect it.

Sam could still feel the impression of Toby's lips on his, the itching of his beard against his chin, the way he gripped Sam's thigh when he leaned in. He barely had time to react—one moment they were sitting together quietly, the next Sam's vision was obscured and there was something warm against his mouth, and then Toby was looking up at Josh as if a few seconds were missing in between. Toby patted Sam's knee before taking his hand away completely.

"I'm trying to give Sam lung cancer," he said a moment later, saving them both from the fear of condemning silence that might ensue after Josh sat down. Toby and Josh did most of the talking for the rest of the night, and C.J. too, when she came over to join them. They cut Josh off at his tenth beer, when he insisted the four of them grace the other patrons with an impromptu rendition of The Temptations' "My Girl" complete with Motown choreography, all of which seemed like a good idea only in his euphoria.

The celebration died down just after midnight, when there were less than a dozen people left inside in the bar, two in the booth near the entrance and six at the bar including Toby and C.J., and he and Josh left in the booth at the back. Sam reclined with his legs stretched down the seat, feet dangling over where Toby had sat before he left to "walk C.J. to her taxi".

Josh still sat across from him, asleep in the booth. Sam was getting there as well, but did not enjoy the same aptitude for crashing any place he laid his head. This talent of Josh's, unquestionably strengthened by alcohol, had made itself known in the earlier days of their friendship: Sam was a callow undergraduate with little more than political daydreams and an unpaid internship; Josh was older and not much wiser, but in Sam's young eyes he held all the wisdom in the world. Among other things, he had always envied Josh's innate ability to fall asleep seemingly at will, whether it was at his desk, in the back of a taxi, or on the kitchen table of Sam's first apartment.

Toby and C.J. were at the bar for fifteen minutes now. They both had a few drinks in them and laughed and smiled at each other in a sort of rhythm, C.J. much more than Toby, throwing her head back and cackling at whatever one of them—most likely herself—had said. Sam watched as she tried to lure him into another drink, but Toby touched her arm and shook his head, that peculiar smirk written across his lips as he tried to move her toward the door. Sam couldn't read their lips but he imagined their conversation: C.J. playful and wisecracking, Toby trying to remain serious despite his lowered inhibitions.

"C'mon, Toby." She said his name like a punctuation mark, something solid and reassuring at the end of a sentence to intensify her plea, with an intonation that caught his attention each time. "One more."

"You already had one more," he said, and C.J. would pull some swift retort from her back pocket, the wit of which Sam could not duplicate even in his imagination. With a final successful touch of her elbow, Toby was able to coax to stand from the bar stool. She paid her bill and Sam watched as they stood near the vestibule and flirted awhile longer. Toby offered to walk her to the car—Sam discerned this from his hand movements and plain logic and C.J.'s clear refusal.

"This isn't the 1940s, we're not on a date, and I'm barely even drunk," he imagined her saying. Toby knew there would be no more sweet-talking her tonight, so he didn't argue. C.J. pulled on her coat and they kissed cheeks and she left.

Although Toby and C.J.'s intermittent flirtation could be at first glance mistaken for neighborly banter, there was an undeniable chemistry between the two and tonight was not the first time Sam noticed it. Toby was enchanted by her—as much as Toby could be enchanted by anyone. He went out of his way to have a crack at her, turning every mockery she threw his way into an excuse for banter. Sam sensed they knew each other far longer than their three months spent in New Hampshire, which he shouldn't have found threatening, but did nonetheless. He endured a long pang of guilt each time he reflected on his jealousy. C.J. was 6 feet of great legs and lean muscle, with a knack for maneuvering the media in ways that made her precious to the Bartlet campaign's success, if they were to have any at all, and Sam was sure Toby valued her above all the staff. He may have been able take C.J. for a walk on civics and legislature, but her sharp wit and ability to think on her feet were unsurpassed by any of the Ivy League graduates that surrounded her.

Sam tried not to exhibit any signs that he'd been watching their every move as Toby returned to the table.

"Ready?" he asked, pulling his coat off the back of the booth. Sam nodded and tapped Josh's leg under the table. He barely moved. "Wake him up or we're leaving without him," Toby added, as if Sam wasn't already trying. It took a few kicks in the leg to rouse him, and it was a few minutes before they brought him to standing. Sam helped Josh with his coat at the door, and Toby helped with Sam's, albeit with a lot of unnecessary touching. He paid Sam's bill, and Josh's as well, regardless the former's displeasure. Toby guaranteed he'd make Josh reimburse him. He didn't mention Sam's payment.

The snowfall was powdery and dense and chalk-white, like the snow on the set of a Hallmark Christmas movie. The windows of the redbrick townhouses down the street were perfectly frosted, and the entire block glistened in the soft glow of its yellowish streetlamps, wrapped in wreaths and string lights leftover from the holidays. The only thing that ruined this romantic moment was Josh, heavy on his shoulder, groaning into Sam's $200 Calvin Klein wool blend coat that he wanted to go home and throw up. Sam guided him down the sidewalk, doing everything he could to keep his friend upright. Toby trailed behind them, stepping forward when Josh completely lost his balance and Sam could no longer support him. This was not exactly what he had in mind when he pictured a walk in the snow with two handsome men.

They buckled Josh into the back seat of Toby's Suburban and he was asleep within seconds, gently snoring with his head tilted back. Toby shut the door and they stood together, not speaking, the snow falling around them, and Sam couldn't help but wonder if this scene wasn't familiar, and whether Toby would reach out for his face, and if Josh would interrupt them again.

"Are you taking the bus tomorrow?" Toby asked.

Sam faltered. That wasn't what he expected to hear. "I was—Josh is driving his rental back to D.C. I was just going to tag along with him and Mandy," he shrugged, "...and I guess take the Amtrak from there."

"You gonna be able to fit all your bags in one car?"

Sam, during his hasty pack-and-go for New Hampshire, not sure of what he would and wouldn't need, had managed to bring along his entire wardrobe from New York, leaving behind only a few shirts, two suits, and a pair of shoes to ensure Lisa he wouldn't be gone forever. It wasn't a problem when it was only him and Josh and Josh's one duffel bag driving up to Manchester, but with Mandy and her unknown number of duffel bags, elbow room was bound to fall short this time around. "I hadn't thought about it," Sam said.

Toby put a hand on his shoulder and motioned him away from the car. "You'll drive down with me." He held the passenger door open. Sam didn't argue.

On the ride home, Toby kept his hands to himself. Sam could have politely declined to drive to South Carolina with him. He could have outright refused. He could have, but he didn't. Why would he, knowing how cramped Josh's car would be tomorrow? Anyone would have done the same with or without emotional interest. It was the fact that he didn't even consider turning Toby down that bothered Sam; an effect of that tone he used.

Toby rarely request Sam's compliance for anything, even if it affected him and especially when he wanted a yes in response—as if Sam could oppose anything said or asked of him in the no-argument inflection. It didn't make him angry—whether at Toby for employing this influence or at himself for obeying—but it did unsettle him. If a time came when Sam needed to speak out, Toby could in all likelihood shut him down with less than a sentence fragment.

He wondered if Toby assumed that tone of voice intentionally, wielding it as desired, or if it was a naturally occurring pattern of speech that surfaced according to his temperament. Sam tried to recreate the tone in his head, its stressed consonants and authoritarian undercurrents, but his eyes could not stay open and the thought drifted away. The hum of the engine and the heat blasting from the vents was enough to lull him to sleep and, despite Josh's consistent snoring from the rear, Sam began to nod off.

It seemed like he had just closed his eyes when they pulled into the motel parking lot. The engine died and Toby brushed a hand affectionately over his knee. "We're here," he whispered, and Sam turned to him wearily. He took a deep breath and stretched his arms as Toby got out to round the front of the car and open his door. Sam took the hand provided for him and yawned as he slid off the seat and onto the asphalt, dizzy and a little unsteady from drowsiness and the soft effects of two beers.

He stood by as Toby opened the back door and woke Josh with remarkably less delicacy. "Josh," he bellowed, unbuckling his seat belt. Josh lolled his head against the headrest, but his eyes remained shut and the snoring continued. "Josh!" Toby repeated. Sam thought he might have to step in, but his exhaustion allowed him to do nothing but lean against the car with his back to the wind, face tucked into his coat collar. Thankfully for his maturing headache, it did not take much more shouting to awaken Josh and pull him from the car. Getting upstairs was the difficult part.

The steps had been salted and Josh remembered how to use a railing, but he didn't seem to be in a rush to get anywhere. Toby stood one step behind on his other side, a hand on his back as a safeguard, glancing behind once or twice to make sure Sam was still with them.

~

Sam woke up in Josh's room. It was a mirrored copy of his own, complete with matching lampshades and an ugly painting over the bed, which was disorienting for the half-second it took to recall last night. The drawn curtains gave him no clue as to the time of day, but it wasn't as if the January overcast would have done that for him either. He was still fully clothed, sans shoes and belt, and his coat hung neatly by the door. His watch sat on the end table just a few inches away from his face, but he withheld looking at it long enough to read the time. He wanted to maintain a delusion that he had a few more hours in which to lay around.

Josh was nowhere to be found, but the messy sheets and the imprint on the pillow beside him indicated someone slept there not many hours ago. The last image he had of Josh was his back, hunched over, head in the toilet. A pile of clothes thrown on the armchair and a comb on the sink suggested he hadn't left for South Carolina yet. Sam staggered from bed, vision blurring and blood rushing to his temples, and switched on the bathroom light. He drew back with a sharp breath, holding an arm up against the uncalled-for fluorescence. He adapted to the brightness and was splashing cold water on his face when there was a knock at the door.

It was Toby.

Sam opened the door and shuddered against the instantaneous cold. "Ready to go?" Toby asked prior to taking in Sam's appearance: matted hair, wrinkled shirt, no shoes. It wouldn't take long for a stranger to conclude he had spent more than 24 hours in those clothes.

"What time is it?" Sam asked.

Toby pulled back his glove and read his watch. "Almost 10. C'mon."

Sam slipped on his shoes and grabbed his coat and belt. The few seconds they spent in the cold between his door and Josh's were enough to give him tremors, even with Toby standing close behind him, protecting him from the flurry. Sam searched his coat pockets for the key, then spent a few seconds fiddling with the lock. He pushed inside soon after and relished in the warmth until Toby shut the door. Sam could have slept for five more hours if he allowed himself, and swiftly crawled into bed to do just that. Something pulled him back up.

"C'mon," Toby pressed, helping him to his feet. "Get in the shower." Sam groaned in protest but did not try to lie down again. He unbuttoned his shirt as Toby grabbed an empty suitcase from the closet and began to transfer his clothes from the dresser.

"Where's Josh?"

"Leo wanted him in for some last minute thing."

Sam stopped his hands once he recognized the impropriety of undressing in front of his boss. "How long of a drive is it?" he asked.

Toby glanced up with his neck bowed over the suitcase, but his eyes slowed when he noticed Sam's half-open shirt. "18 hours." He returned to packing.

"That's a long drive."

"We'll stop in Washington for a night."

"Still, that's a long drive."

"Why do you think I'm bringing you along?" He glanced again up at Sam, who couldn't help but smile and pretend to fiddle with his shirt buttons. "Hurry up and get in the shower. You're only making it longer by standing there."

~

Toby's clothes-folding abilities were subpar at best, but they didn't have time to properly refold three suitcases worth of shirts and pants. Sam did his best not to complain, and Toby did his best not to swear and throw a suitcase over the balcony rather than hull another 40 lbs. down the steps. The suitcases fit easily into the back of his Suburban along with two of Sam's suits—protected by individual waterproof covers and hung on polished wooden hangers—which "under no circumstances" could be folded. Toby tossed them on top of the suitcases and shut the trunk.

He stole a motel pillow from the bed while Sam was in the bathroom, and patted it against the passenger seat while he returned his key to the motel office. By the time Sam settled into his seat and noticed the hotel logo on the pillowcase, Toby was pulling out of the parking lot.

They hadn't even reached the highway when Toby decided to lay down some ground rules. He instructed Sam to write them down for future reference, and although that remark may have been a jest, Sam found a napkin and pen in the glove compartment and made Toby wait until he was prepared. He copied them word-for-word.

  1. _No humming, singing, whistling, or tapping._  
 _a. Especially along with anything on the radio._

  2. _We will be making one stop every three hours. No exceptions._

  3. _No calling shotgun._

  4. _No I-Spy or variations thereof._

  5. _Seat belts at all times._

  6. _No greasy foods._

  7. _No condiments._

  8. _If you're drinking something, it better have a lid on it._

  9. _No one touches the radio. Suck it up._




Sam privately thought there should have been a tenth rule, but he didn't say anything. He scribbled a small ‘10' at the bottom of the list and kept it blank. Toby also informed him that he would be serving as navigator, and needed to make full use of the northeastern U.S. road map, atlas, and compass tucked into the pocket behind his seat. Sam retrieved them and awaited his orders. After twenty minutes, Toby told him to relax.

Sam rolled back his seat and kicked off his shoes, admiring weekend-casual Toby from his vantage point, who was much like weekday-business Toby without a coat and tie. The only observable difference in weekend Toby was his chattiness, which was lacking in comparison to the general populace but could chew business Toby's ear off. His eyes did not deviate from the road and both hands were kept on the wheel, except when he spoke, which allowed for one hand to occasionally wave around by the wrist.

The sun began to peek out from the clouds by the time they were on the interstate, promising a pleasant thaw for their drive. Sam absently wondered how Josh was, if he'd managed to subdue his hangover, and whether or not he and Mandy would be getting along today. He wished that Josh could be with them, sitting in the back seat, breaking all of Toby's rules because he hadn't been listening when they were listed off. He smiled at the thought and adjusted the pillow against his neck. "Are you going to need me for a while?" he asked.

Toby tilted his head toward him, but kept his eyes on the road. "No, uh… you're good. I'll let you know." He cleared his throat and Sam slipped the road maps and compass into the glove compartment. He leaned back in his seat and half-buried his face into the pillow, which was now infinitely more comfortable than it had been at the motel. Half of his vision was blocked by white cotton, but he could still see Toby: gaze steady, both hands on the wheel, sleeves rolled up to expose the thick hair on his arms. He admired the way his arms moved, how his hands slid down on the wheel when he switched lanes, how they would glide almost exactly into place again. Sam's stomach fluttered when he imagined those arms wrapped around him, those hands touching his shoulders, his back, his waist, and he thought how utterly, completely screwed he was.


End file.
